Thought I was an optimist but I just watched a video with myself
and can’t stand the inflection of my voice, intoned up in ricochet
of empty space– the bouncing of a ping-pong ball off the table in
an empty room. I sniffle when I speak, stare out through open
window past your deadlocked eyes. The paradise is without
myself. To be enclosed in such close quarters with nothing
but the sound of myself saying my name, repeatedly, forever.
James Croal Jackson (he/him/his) is a Filipino-American poet. He has a chapbook, The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press, 2017), and recent poems in DASH, Sampsonia Way, and Jam & Sand.
He edits The Mantle (themantlepoetry.com). Currently, he works in film production in Pittsburgh, PA. (jamescroaljackson.com)
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